Three Years Later
by Byrde
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. A day in the life of John Watson, on the three year anniversary of Sherlock's suicide. (Johnlock)


Three years. Three years could pass in the blink of an eye, or in the slow, tortured steps of the damned.

Three years since the greatest detective in the world had thrown himself off a building. Three years since his best friend had watched him smash into the concrete. Three years since the war had forcibly abandoned John Watson.

From where he sat, on a tall stool in the corner of the pub, John tried not to think about any of that.

It was early, and the place was hardly full. A few couples lounged at the tables, whispering and laughing with each other. He knew from three years' experience that soon enough the pub would fill, the noises of London's less-than-illustrious loud and blissfully distracting, the surge of humanity enough to keep John's mind occupied for the evening.

As he waited, John ordered a drink—the first of a planned many—and pulled his mobile out of his pocket. Three missed calls. It was almost amusing, watching that number dwindle as the years passed. On the first… anniversary… his voicemail had actually filled itself up to capacity. Voices of concern, voices of hatred, uncomfortable voices he'd never even heard before. Fans of the blog who didn't know what to think, but for whatever reason believed they were entitled to express themselves anyway. Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, even Donovan had phoned him that first year, even though he hadn't talked to any of them in almost that long. He'd called them all back, at least the people he knew, thanking them and catching up in a way a bit too sociably, almost too friendly for even the pre-fall John Watson.

_I'm fine, [insert name here],_ he repeated countlessly. _Really, I am. Absolutely fine. I'll talk to you soon._

He wasn't lying, either. He _was _fine—a fact that seemed to baffle them. He wondered why. Didn't it occur to them that this wasn't the first time he'd watched a friend die? It was a tragedy—there was no denying that—but he wasn't about to crumple over it. He was John Watson, a soldier, and he would not be brought to his knees.

The next year, the calls had dwindled to just the people he'd actually known, thank God. The conversations ran almost exactly the same. And now, staring down at his phone, John was glad he'd only have to say it three more times.

But, no. Maybe only twice. One of the calls was from Mrs. Hudson, expected, and one from Molly, which was odd in itself, as over the past three years she'd never once called. Too devastated herself, he assumed. Really though, it was the third call that was the anomaly, from a number he'd never seen before. Maybe a business call, or some overly persistent blog fan. He'd ignore that one for now, anyway. Shoving the phone back into his pocket as his pint arrived; John turned his attention to his drink.

As an hour or two passed in the pub and it began to fill with the lost souls of London, few people stopped to look at John Watson twice. He'd become a standard feature here over the past three years, at least a few nights a week. It was just a few minutes' walk from the flat he'd been living in for the past three years. He split with another lost soul, one who'd returned from Afghanistan only a month or so after the funeral. Lucky, really. He'd spent that month living out of a motel.

Never in three years had he gone back to 221B Baker Street.

Never in three years had he seen Mrs. Hudson, or Lestrade, or Molly.

Never in three years, to the best of his ability, had John Watson thought of Sherlock Holmes, or the world he had taken with him when he'd died.

Some time later and several drinks later, John was startled by the obnoxious vibration of his phone in his pocket. Molly again. How odd. Slowly, trying to keep his hands steady, he answered.

"'ello?"

"John!" She breathed, sounding relieved. Her voice was small and pleasant in his ear, compared to the rough sounds of the pub around him. It was nice. Almost. "How are you doing?"

"I'm grand, as always," John replied easily, trying not to roll his eyes. Three years, and nobody would ever let this go. "Yourself?"

She paused. "Yeah, I am."

"Good." Another pause, John waiting for her to speak again, or hang up, or anything. No such luck. "Yeah, good," he continued awkwardly.

"John…" She finally said, voice almost urgent. Very un-Molly, from what he remembered from the haze of three long years. "Are you busy tonight?"

Shocked, John actually pulled his mobile away from his ear to check the contact. Yes, it _was_ Molly. He released a puff of a breath and returned to the conversation.

"Look, Molly, I'm flattered and everything—"

"No!" She interrupted loudly, frantic. Much more Molly "No, I mean. Definitely no. Not like that, I mean." She paused again, but this time there was an absolute silence that made John think she'd stepped away from the phone. After a moment, she returned. "Can we just talk?"

"Sorry, I'm busy tonight," he looked over the pub, which was full to capacity by now. This was his place now, and he didn't need little lost Mollies around at the moment. "I'll call you back." And he hung up.

Rather gruffly he shoved the phone back into his pocket and took a forceful swig from his drink, trying to keep his left hand steady. A long, deep draught and an even longer drink and he was fine again. Just fine. This was a night, like any other over the past 1095 days.

The drinks and people kept coming, leaving him in a state of detached bliss. The sharp corners of the world blurred and softened. Time warped, the night lengthened and sped. Until, suddenly, it came into sharp focus on the warm body to sit on the stool beside him.

A woman! Attractive? He thought so, though some of that could definitely be attributed to the alchohol running through his veins. How to make his move? He drunkenly reached over to tap her shoulder, bare in the dress she was wearing, when his unsteady hand knocked over what was left of his drink over the bar.

"Damn!" He burst, face reddening as faces turned to stare. Irritated, mocking, amused, drunk gazes turning to him. Including the bright blue eyes of the girl beside him.

So familiar… In a way that made him ache.

"Sorry, so sorry…" He slurred, trying to mop up the spill.

"It's alright," She laughed. Her eyes glowed. As the barkeep came over to clean his mess, John turned to her.

"I'm John. John Watson."

"Mary," She returned, those blue eyes glowing and a crooked grin twisting her lips.

The rough wall of the alley's stone against his hands, the taste of Mary's alcohol and his own on his lips, the warmth of her body as they pushed against each other in the darkness. Warmth, deep and desperate, crawled through John as they churned and rolled in the night. Her hand, strong and determinted, eventually taking him from that dark place, leading him through the desolate nighttime streets. To her flat, up the stairs. These same fingers pulled up his jumper and undid the buttons on his slacks. They fell into each other in the dark, as John's phone buzzed, ignored, on the nightstand.

He didn't know how long he spent in her flat or what time it was when he left… A few hours left until dawn, judging by the lackluster color of the sky. His head was clearer than before, though still spinning. The streets were quiet, only the occasional car rushing by. His footsteps seemed loud in his own ears as he walked. Just a pitstop, a few minutes and he'd finally be where he wanted.

More than a few minutes later, John Watson stood before the familiar door. Running his fingers over the dark wood and the shiny metal address—221 B. With a key he'd never gotten rid of, he opened the door and stepped inside.

The flat was almost exactly how he'd left it three years before. Apparently Mrs. Hudson had never gone through with her idea of donating the testing materials to a school, for they all still stood clumped together on the dining room table. The wall paper was as patterned as ever, and the skull still stood vigil on the fireplace. Everything was coated in a thick layer of dust.

John wondered why Mrs. Hudson had never rented it out.

As he sat down in his favorite, familiar armchair, despite the dust, John Watson took a deep breath.

For the first time in three long years, he let the walls down, let himself see the truth… The truth he knew would destroy him.

The fact that he, John Watson the soldier, was absolutely and irrevocably, _not fine._

For the first time in three years, John Watson cried.

For the first time in three years, John Watson wrapped his fingers around the cold metal of his pistol.

For the first time in three years, John Watson let himself think the name he'd been running from for so long. _Sherlock._

He'd thought about writing a note, but who was there to read it, anyway? He had no one from before Sherlock who'd even so much as notice his absence, and he'd done a valiant job of making sure no one he'd met in Sherlock's world would care.

In the darkness of the flat, John looked down at the weapon in his grasp. His hand was shaking—it was always shaking, nowadays. His post-war tremor had returned, and he was sure the limp would be coming along soon. Or, well, it would have.

In one fluid movement, John lifted the pistol up to his head, relishing in the feeling of cold metal against his temple. One deep breath, and then another. He opened his eyes, one last look at the flat, and saw something impossible.

A tall, dark silhouette standing in the doorway.

As much as he wanted to, John couldn't close his eyes, even though he knew that this couldn't possibly be real.

He'd been expecting it really. From the alcohol in his head or the heart shattered in his chest. It had to be a hallucination… Or his dark angel, returning to take him to the other side.

His hand was shaking so badly.

"Sherlock," he whispered, letting it all out in his voice. Three years of suffering, of lonliness, of despair and desolation, channeled into one word. One name. The only name that mattered.

Hand trembling too much, John moved the gun, wrapping his lips around the cold, cold barrel of the pistol. The tang of the metal was oddly sweet.

Fear, but also… Joy. It would be over soon. He'd replace this shadow Sherlock for the real one.

Even so, he couldn't bear to close his eyes.

One breath, and then another.

And in the silence, noise.

"John!" A scream, ragged. A voice so full, so painful, so living that it couldn't be anything but a living, breathing, suffering man.

Indeed like a dark angel he flew across the room, the billows of his coat spreading like wings behind him, his long arms going to scoop up his limp friend, his angry hands sending the hated gun skidding across the room.

"John, John, John…" He whispered, oddly childlike in his deep, resonant voice. "I'm so sorry John… I didn't… I didn't know…"

John looked up at this man, this dark angel. He'd seem him angry and avenging, he'd seen him witty and grinning, and he'd even seen him broken hearted. But this… This broken creature, weeping into his hair…

Maybe he was dead after all.

Silence reigned for a long time, then.

After some time, John's arms regained their strength and wrapped around his companion.

His friend. Back from the dead.

His Sherlock.

"Please be real," he whispered, not even realizing that he was saying it aloud. Sherlock pulled away, and the pain in his glowing blue eyes was too much to bear. Without another word John pulled him back to him. He'd fallen to his knees before the armchair, and now he buckled down, burying his face into John's chest. John pressed his nose into his friend's wild, curly hair. Somehow, it appeared to be even wilder than before.

John inhaled. The scents of musk and chemicals and even illicit cigarettes. The scent of _Sherlock. _Smells he'd been without for three whole years, and that he thought he'd never smell again.

Never again. John's chest tightened. There was something he had to do.

Three years, so long ago, standing over his friend's gravestone, he'd begged for a miracle. At the same time, he'd made himself an oath—that if that miracle should ever come true, he would speak those words he'd never said. The things he couldn't even dare to say over the headstone… Though he knew, even know, they would send emotionally unavailable Sherlock out the window.

Strong moral tendencies, right?

John leaned in close, just a whisper.

"Sherlock… I love you."

When Sherlock looked up, John was shocked. He'd never thought eyes could contain entire universes.

Very slowly, almost shyly, the crooked smirk John had missed so much grew on his best friend's lips, through his tears. His voice was deep and intense.

"John. My dear John Watson. Of course I love you too."

Without bidding, John could feel an answering grin twisting his own lips.

"That's sentiment, you know?"

"Ah, sentiment. I guess I've grown fonder of the idea."

And there, holding each other in the dusty remains of their old lives, they began a new one.

Three years later.


End file.
